Behindlings (63 page)

In a flash

– he knew much better. This was Wesley’s story (this was
always
Wesley’s story). It bore all the familiar hallmarks. It was too complicated, too unlikely, too intense, too lovely…

The blood
The pain
The fear
The beauty

Wesley’s story

Arthur cursed his own gullibility. Because at some point during that long night – that awful night – their curiously potent little threesome (their
troika,
their
trinity)
had actually started to
mean
something to him…

To signify…

He’d honestly started to think of them –

Oh God

– as… as
immutable
in some… in some…

As unified, as united, as
destined
to… to…

He had actually begun to believe – to focus, to fixate – on some kind of vital, rooted, essential
equilibrium
 –

A balance

– something loosely –

Very loosely

– 
uh… spiritual.
A twisted sort of divinity (the nativity on stilts. The nativity on ice, on
water…)

That sense of encroaching peril rendering everything so… so…

Clear

Hello?

Hello?

Is this Arthur Young?

Mr Arthur
Anthony
Young?

Is it?

Could it…?

Nah

Am I…?

Am I…?

Am I cr… cr…?

Is this some kind of falsely retroac-ac-active…

Hy… hypothermic…

Blood-loss-related…

Pharmaceu… ceutically engendered…

Eh?

And yet –

Sure as eggs is fucking eggs

– to get back to the point, to get back to the reality; here was
bloody

Wesley –

Tah-dah!

– to mess it all up again, to move things on, to make things happen,
to tinker with the balance, to save, to relish, to implode, to conquer, to appropriate to… to… to…
Christ I hate him

‘
Shit,
man,’ Wesley said, clinging to the doorframe, waiting a second for the craft to stop swaying, ‘it’s no wonder your catching skills were so fucking
abject,
Art, – you’ve lost a
ton
of blood, there.’

He sounded concerned –

Fibber

‘I smashed my hand through the stupid window,’ Art sullenly explained, ‘in the dark.’ Wesley began to try and tie a rope around him, but Arthur pushed him firmly back. ‘I want the girl off before me,’ he chattered, peering up into his face to try and find evidence of the sound beating he’d received the previous evening. But there was nothing. A slight rash on his left cheek, like a strawberry birthmark –

Is he…

Is he real?

Wesley glanced into the boat and saw the girl gazing benignly up at him from the floor. His face stiffened at the sight of her; as if he’d received a sudden sharp jab to his lower intestine –

Christopher

‘
Fine,
’ he grated (almost short of breath), his former ebullience totally evaporating, ‘if that’s how you want to play it.’

‘But when I go,’ the girl immediately began wheedling, ‘the deer will come after me, so we should really try and get Brion off
before…
’

‘Shut up,’ Wesley snapped, forming some of his spare rope into a lassoo.

‘You don’t
understand,
’ the girl persisted, ‘if I go the deer will…’

‘Bollocks,’ he snarled, ‘that deer has much more sense than you do.’

He tossed the looped rope down at her. It landed on her head, slipped onto the brim of Arthur’s cap, stuck there. She released one hand from Art’s foot – gasping with the exertion – pulled the rope loose and then over her shoulder. She was breathing heavily.

‘My
fingers…
’ she panted, pausing for a moment.

It was the first time Arthur had heard a word of complaint
from her in all the time they’d been together. He twisted around, concerned.

‘Cut the
whining,
’ Wesley interrupted.

Arthur glared up at him, furiously.

The girl yanked the rope fairly laboriously, first under one armpit, then under the other. The boat protested.

Before she’d even had a chance to prepare herself, Wesley tightened the lassoo, and began pulling her forward.

He was strong. The deer grunted then shuffled as the girl’s body shifted.

‘You stay the
hell
where you are,’ Wesley shouted, pointing at it.

‘He doesn’t respond to…’

‘
Blah,
’ Wesley said, pushing his shoulder past Arthur and easing her further.

‘The boat’s
really
swaying,’ Arthur warned him.

‘Thanks for that, Art,’ Wesley muttered as Sasha finally drew close enough for him to offer her his free hand. The bad hand.

Sasha saw the hand and froze for a millisecond, then frowned, grabbed at it and rose unsteadily to her feet.

Wes indicated briskly towards the walkway, barely looking at her, tying the other end of the lassoo to his waist, then transferring the rope connecting him to the horse from around his hips to hers.

‘Run over it quickly,’ he said, ‘spread your weight evenly between both planks, but lightly. We’re linked up in two different ways. Try not to trip. If you do fall, though, you’re tied both to me
and
to the pony. We’ll get you out…’ he paused, somewhat meanly, ‘
eventually.
If you
do
fall,’ he repeated (almost as if savouring the thought), ‘then try and keep upright, push your legs and knees and feet together. Fall straight. It’s safer.’

‘I
know
how to fall,’ she interrupted, ‘but there’s rocks under the mud down there…’

Wesley grunted and gave her a sharp little push to set her on her way.

The bad hand.

Arthur saw the shove and was appalled, but Sasha responded well to it, setting off at a light, snaking trot and reaching the other side without undue mishap.

Not so the craft, which jolted – side to side – with a horrible creaking and then dropped – even further – at the back. An inch? Three inches?

Sasha turned around, pulled the two ropes off and tied them together, her eyes wide with a sudden anxiety – as if the feel of solid land, the fact of her now almost certain safety, had somehow made everything seem paradoxically scarier. ‘Please don’t forget
Brion,
’ she shouted dramatically, ‘he’s my only friend in all the
world.
’

‘Holy
bosh,
’ Wesley muttered, rapidly reeling the rope back in. ‘You’re next, Art. Try and stand so you can loosen up your legs a little first

‘No,’ Arthur was staring at the small girl with an unusually bright – yet exceptionally morbid – expression on his face.

‘No,’ he repeated, and shook his head, ‘the deer.’

Sasha was listening, had heard him. She whooped and bounced, punching her arm into the air.

‘
Pardon?
’

Wesley couldn’t understand.

‘The
deer,
’ Arthur repeated, ‘rope it up.’

Wesley was silent. ‘When the deer goes,’ he finally spoke, ‘this
whole structure
goes with it. You do know that?’

‘I don’t care.’ Arthur stuck his chin out. ‘She’s a good girl. She loves that damn animal.’

‘
Go
Brion!’

The girl yelled. The deer began moving in response to her call. The boat tipped.

‘
Shut
the
fuck
up,’ Wesley bellowed.

The deer froze. Sasha froze.

The boat shifted back. Creaked.

‘I am climbing off this thing
alone,
Art,’ Wes said, barely regaining his composure, ‘and
leaving
you here, before I take that moronic bovine off first.’

‘Fine,’ Arthur shrugged, ‘I’ll lead the deer off myself.’

‘
Thank you
Art,’ the girl yelled.

Arthur raised his arm in an uncertain royal salute, like a visiting first-world sovereign attending a mysterious cultural event in the colonies –

I am a visitor here

In this beautiful land

‘Don’t be
ridiculous,
’ Wesley spat. He was clenching his teeth, ‘Deer swim perfectly well. I’ll lassoo him. He’ll be fine. But if this thing goes down with you still on board, you’re
fucked.
’

‘I thought you liked animals,’ Arthur said.

‘Pardon?’

‘I said I thought you were a
friend
to the animals…’ he paused, satirically, ‘like… like
Dr Dolittle
was.’

He suddenly realised that he was having a good time.

‘I do,’ Wesley muttered (plainly appreciating Arthur’s little victory over him, but still confused by it), ‘I
am.
’

‘Well then.’

Arthur tried to neaten up his appearance. He pushed his hair back, rubbed his hand across his chin. Wesley watched him, scowling.

‘
Urgh,
’ the girl said, locating first the fox’s tail, then the rest of its cadaver. She picked up the tail and inspected it closely.

‘Perhaps,’ Wesley said gently, ‘your judgement’s been clouded a little by lack of
sleep,
Art.’ His tone – Arthur noted with some surprise – was almost respectful, if querulous.

‘I want the girl,’ Arthur’s teeth were chattering slightly again, but he was full – almost exploding – with a kind of crazy zeal, ‘to have her deer. She
loves
her deer. Didn’t you hear what she said before? Weren’t you
listening?
The deer is all she has in the
world.
’

The girl looked up from the vixen’s carcass, having momentarily abandoned all thoughts of Brion’s safety.

‘
Yes,
’ she cheerleadered, suddenly catching up again, waving the tail in the air. ‘
Go,
Art.’

Wesley gave Arthur a straight look, ‘You can’t be serious.’

Art nodded devoutly. Yes. Yes he was.

‘She’s an eight-year-old
girl,
Art.’

‘Nine.’

‘What?’

‘She’s nine.’

Wesley rubbed his hands over his face, ‘I don’t have enough rope to lassoo both you
and
the animal.’

‘And yourself.’

Arthur sniffed, then smiled, thinly. Provocatively.

‘Pardon?’

‘You don’t have enough rope for me, the deer,
and
yourself.’

Wesley was quiet for a second, processing. He detected a challenge. He
liked
challenges.

‘Of course you’re right,’ he mused ruminatively. ‘I don’t
need
the rope. I was only wearing it in the first place for the girl’s safety…’ He began to take the rope off.

The girl, meanwhile, had clambered part-way up the muddy bank and was peering off keenly to her right, her back as straight – her posture as rapt and attentive – as a wary prairie dog with the scent of a coyote on his territory.

Wesley leaned casually forward as he unwound the rope. He saw Ted, running towards them at full pelt (in his lovely handmade suit; like
Carter,
like
James Bond
), followed – close behind – by Eileen. They looked a delightfully incongruous pair. They were soaking wet. Their legs were splattered with mud. They were both bright-cheeked and out of breath.

‘
I have more…
’ Ted yelled, gesticulating clumsily, ‘
I’ve brought…
’ He pulled the rope from his arm and then slid – hard on his arse – down the steep bank. The rope bounced out of his clutches and rolled straight into the river.

Plop

‘
Ouch,
’ the girl chuckled, lifting her shoulders, sniggering through her fingers, ‘you messed up.’ Ted winced and closed his eyes. Agonised.

‘Don’t worry, Ted,’ Wesley shouted over, ‘there’s more than enough rope here already for Art and the deer.’

‘I won’t be needing any rope,’ Arthur murmured, haughtily.

Wesley stopped smiling.

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘If
you
don’t need any rope,’ Arthur attempted to struggle to his feet (failed abysmally), ‘then nor do I.’

Ted – also struggling to stand up again, and succeeding, but with a slight groan – turned to the girl, ‘Did he just say there was a
deer
stuck on that thing?’

She nodded.

Ted gazed at her, dazed. The coin dropped. ‘Then you must be…?’

She nodded again, her eyes widening. Ted frowned at her reaction, then suddenly understood it on feeling a violent pressure to the back of his legs as the piebald pony interposed its large nose between his two thighs and flipped him savagely forward. He shrieked and almost toppled. Sasha grabbed him.

‘You’re so
comical,
’ she murmured, staring up at him intently, ‘I’m
very
glad you’re here.’ She nudged him flirtatiously with her fox’s tail. Ted stepped back, his face a mixture of fascination and horror.

That was
Wesley’s
look (that deliciously, unconsciously
cruel
look).

That was
Wesley’s
face, in miniature.

Eileen, who had picked her way – rather more genteelly – down the slope, finally arrived safely at the bottom of it.

‘So what’s happening?’ she asked, still out of breath. ‘Has anybody thought to call the Fire Brigade yet?’

‘
No,
’ Arthur and Wes both shouted from the craft in unison.

Wes was forming a lassoo again, tossing it – the first time; unsuccessfully – the second time… Arthur was shaking out his legs.

‘My deer’s stuck on the boat,’ Sasha explained gamely, ‘and Art has promised to save him for me,’ she paused, ‘what are those for?’